


moments of truth

by lordbhreanna



Series: like oil and water [7]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Changing POV, Complicated Relationships, Drama & Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Mutual Pining, Past Child Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Redemption, Resident Evil 3 Remake inspired, Resolved Romantic Tension, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26101567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordbhreanna/pseuds/lordbhreanna
Summary: Little things pile up and disguise what they have in normalcy. Jill wonders how long it will last, but finds herself unable to think of its ending.-Three years after Raccoon City, Jill and Nicholai are past the definition of enemies; but the question aboutwhatthey are has become a riddle neither wants to solve—until truths threaten to be exposed, and they are forced to make a choice.
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Jill Valentine
Series: like oil and water [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599376
Comments: 40
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to [Anuviel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuviel/pseuds/Anuviel), who has been an incredible help when it comes to the Russian tidbits and a great inspiration with her suggestions. As you will see in the notes, this fic owes a lot to her!
> 
> And another thank you to my friends who bear with my ramblings while I keep working on this madness.

In the last three years, Jill has learnt how easy it would be for the world to crumble down and burn like Raccoon City did. 

One misstep and everything goes to hell. When a government points their finger after noticing suspicious activity, they are contacted and proceed to investigate. It usually ends with them extinguishing the spark of another incident, helping to arrest ex-Umbrella employees or retrieving any remaining stolen data. The Consortium pays the bills, making its own set of requests from time to time. They comply, because it paves the path to a world where another Raccoon City can be avoided, where Umbrella has to answer for the crimes they have committed, once and for all.

The requests have become more and more common, as the rising number of attempted outbreaks, accidental or not, increase around the globe. She gives all she’s got in every mission. Chris has taken notice of her carelessness, from time to time; but he can’t hold it against her, because he’s just as guilty. 

Sacrifice is all that remains after surviving, as though their lives don’t belong to them anymore. She hasn’t talked about it with anyone, not aloud, but she can’t help thinking about it when she remembers the promise she made after joining the R.P.D., to protect the people of Raccoon City. That had been her reason to stay in the city after Arklay—and she had failed miserably, countless deaths weighing over her shoulders. Even the virus might still hide in her blood, but fate has decided to keep her alive for some unfathomable reason she can’t quite understand yet, so she will try to make the most of it. It fills her with purpose instead of dread, at least.

-

Toronto has been the last assignment. 

They are deployed in the city one week after the Consortium sends the intel. The government authorities and a private committee fill them in when they arrive; there have been some strange sightings around an isolated factory. The facility had been owned by Umbrella and now it stood abandoned, like a wreck left behind by the remaining members of the company. It takes them a couple of days to prepare a mission plan, gather all the information, see what they’re up to.

Along with local military forces, Chris is with her as they travel on the back of a pick up truck, under the shelter of night, to stop an alleged black market exchange. It could be T-virus samples, or something even worse. For a second, Jill pictures test tubes holding Tyrants inside—and the Nemesis. Blinking, she scratches away the creeping anxiety and focuses on the touch of her fingerless leather gloves. She knows of these back alley dealings thanks to Nicholai, to what she’s witnessed in other countries, so the realization that Umbrella’s experiments could be so out of control, despite all their efforts, doesn’t take her by surprise.

It still frightens her, even if she doesn’t know how she’s still capable of feeling fear—or anything. 

The mission goes by quicker and smoother than she expects. The smugglers are arrested, caught in the middle of the act, the samples are secured and packaged accordingly. Warning shots are fired, but there are no casualties, not a drop of blood spilled. No monsters either. There haven’t been many after Raccoon City, just once in a run-down lab in the outskirts of Paris and what Chris went through in Rockfort and the Artic base. 

She can’t rub away the uneasiness, though.

Once they go back to the military headquarters in Toronto, a representative of the Consortium (from Tricell, he says) takes the suitcase with the samples and informs that, as per usual, they would be transported to one of their labs for analysis.

Sometimes, Jill wonders if they are not doing someone’s else dirty work, handing in these viruses to a different pair of dirty hands. She wants to believe it’s a just cause, that they’re helping, but doubt has become a constant now, mingling with a fair dose of cynicism she despises.

Deep down, she knows it will get worse before it gets better—if it ever does get better, she retorts to herself. Raccoon City has created a new world order. This could be the rest of her life. Fighting, until one day she dies at the claws of one abomination or the true monsters behind them.

Pushing away the gloom becomes increasingly difficult, as the years go by. She keeps trying.

-

After a two hour flight, they land back in the States. She shares a cab with Chris and they say goodbye when he hops off first, with tired chuckles and a promise to get some rest. When the car pulls next on the corner of her street, she pays the driver quickly in cash, adding a hefty tip, and drags her feet on the pavement to the foyer of her building. She doesn’t even bother calling the elevator, just jumps the steps of the stairs in twos and arrives at her door. Every muscle in her body throbs in pain. There are bags under her eyes, her lips feel parched and her hair oily. She opens the door unceremoniously, the keys dangling from her fingers, her feet trailing automatically to her bedroom. Shower can wait until the morning. Plummeted down on the bed, Jill throws her travel bag away, kicks off her boots, removes her jacket and sets the alarm for the following day.

She sees the date on the clock. September 4th. Their next meeting is due on the 6th. Suddenly, Jill thinks back to Toronto, asking herself if all the good she can accomplish is through deals with devils—only to realise she doesn’t think about Nicholai in those terms anymore.

Truth is, none come to her when she thinks about him, which prompts more questions she’s not in the mood to answer. Her eyelids, heavy with sleep, fall down as she slips into dreams that will eventually turn into nightmares.

-

Jill doesn’t truly realise it’s been three whole months since they last saw each other until he steps into the apartment two days later and a shudder runs down her spine when she watches him, all cloaked in a dark green jacket and a pale grey henley that wraps around his chest nicely. He has arrived around ten minutes later, which surprises Jill because it has happened very rarely—except surprise is not the only feeling it has triggered, a slight sense of uneasiness brushing at the edge of her mind.

As their eyes meet, something pulls at her stomach, scrapes at the back of her neck, creeps under her skin. Her cheeks flush lightly, but not out of coyness. 

It’s overwhelming. Jill’s first instinct is to deny that she’s having such a strong reaction to seeing him again, to admit that his absence has left her wanting. But there’s a prickling sensation in her palms and she has to wriggle her hands together to stop herself from touching him immediately. 

She buries the compulsion by sinking her nails into the flesh of her forearm, arms folded tightly while she studies him from the kitchen’s archway.

-

The routine of their meetings has been as changeable as her life. The irony is hidden there, somewhere between the sparing thoughts of why she keeps doing what she does, the quiet moments and the adrenaline kicks. The last two years have only added more layers and unexpected turns—which only complicate things in the long run. Everything in her life is shrouded in complications, though, which means the downsides of her arrangement with Nicholai matter less, because nothing comes easy anymore.

Jill thinks back to the not-pillow talks, when they lie naked on the bed and sometimes one of them dares to speak, or the few instances where they have shared a meal together, mostly by accident or circumstance. It felt like an out of body experience, sitting down next to Nicholai, chatting and eating some left-over food she had crammed in her cooler because she hadn’t found time to have dinner before he arrived. He had mocked the state of her kitchen, to which she had replied with a biting comeback of her own.

It’s their own brand of banter, in a sort of twisted way, she guesses. 

The shocking surprise is they have actually been able to hold a conversation together, from discussing military drills to workouts routines to Nicholai’s stories about his trips. He’s much more traveled than her, and Jill finds herself lost in the cadence of his voice when he talks about walking the cobblestone streets of a small Swiss village. 

He probably omits much of what he did in all those cities, as if he’s sweeping the trail of blood under the carpet; Jill willingly ignores it because she’d rather indulge herself a little while longer in the pretense.

-

One evening, she discovered he could play a bit of piano. With a smirk, she asked for a live demonstration, and he indulged her, playing a very simple nursery rhyme on her piano that didn’t sound familiar to her. He had frowned briefly, hands hovering above the keys, and took his time to answer when she asked where he had learnt.

"At school when I was a child," he finally gritted, backing away from the instrument with urgency. Jill had a hard time picturing Nicholai as a child, sat down on the bench, short legs dangling from it. 

He never mentioned the piano again.

\- 

Another evening, Nicholai veiledly suggested she'd have a hard time learning Russian simply because it'd take her a lot to even learn the Cyrillic alphabet and _Americans can’t be bothered to learn_. She didn’t have the need to prove herself before him; but then she remembered a kiss, a long time ago, the string of Russian words coming out of his lips that she couldn’t understand, a faint memory even if she still heard the intonation of his voice like an echo.

In the end, she accepted the challenge. He wrote down the letters on a napkin before leaving the next morning and wished her a good luck bathed in a teasing snort.

Languages came easy to her, in the same way that she could pick locks with her eyes closed. Later on, she bought herself a couple of books to keep learning, telling herself it might come in handy in her line of work, because she didn’t want to admit she still thought about that kiss. 

Shrugging off that memory, she amused herself watching the shadow of a smile across his mouth when she slipped in any new phrase she might’ve learnt. 

-

Little things pile up and disguise what they have in normalcy. Jill wonders how long it will last, but finds herself unable to think of its ending.

-

“Miss Valentine,” he greets, giving a nod, a short grin hanging from his mouth. He peels off the jacket from his shoulders excruciatingly slow.

They don’t break eye contact. He’s purposeful in his timed actions, as if baiting her into acting first. Jill decides then and there she’s fed up with this nonsense, closing the distance between them in a quick stride. Her hands land on his chest, clutched around the fabric of his shirt, and pull him towards the wall.

In a blink, her mouth smashes against his, wet and warm, and she takes in a bated breath when Nicholai’s hands wrap around her waist and hoist her up. Their teeth scrape at each other, clashing together in a rush of sucking kisses and muffled moans.

“You are late,” she utters when their mouths break apart.

They gasp for an inch of air while she has him pushed against the wall, eating the space between until both are all over each other. Hurriedly, one of his hands scoops her up by the ass. Her fingers fumble around his belt. They haven’t even made it to the living room yet. He lets out a grim chuckle, a sound that now permeates like a tingling shiver along her spine. Cupping the back of her head, Nicholai grazes her lips with his teeth in a wicked grin.

“I didn’t know you were so eager to resume your Russian lessons.”

Teasing, of course. She adds more pressure to her bite, lip caught between her teeth. It's in moments like these where thrill runs through her veins, waking her up from the faint apathy that infects her after every mission.

“And you’re talking too much,” she retorts, sinking her teeth into his throat while she succeeds in sliding the stupid belt off his pants. The buckle clinks loudly against the floor when she throws it away, their hips clashing together.

Her limbs act on their own, guided by the sudden rush of desperation that has possessed her.

“So you missed me?” he hisses with a prided note in his voice, pushing her back enough until they are eye to eye. His thumb traces along her jawline. When his head bows down, lips suck over a spot down her neck. It tickles, but Jill swallows the sigh it wrigs out of her lungs.

“You wish.”

Her non-answer is met by his devious snicker, although the question lingers and gnaws at her. Jill realises she’s not sure she has _not_ missed him. Could it be? Nicholai has become a fixed part of her life—a resource against Umbrella and her own selfish pocket of comfort. More irony to her existence, because it’s like the universe mocks her by making her find a sliver of something somewhat good out of the thing that has destroyed her life. That it could turn on her, one day, only makes the comparison more accurate.

She moves back slightly, their gazes riveted on each other while they catch their breaths. He stares at Jill piercingly, drowning himself in her.

Jill thinks she did—she missed him, in the end. Both his hands stay clasped at her waist, unmoving, which tells her he did too. He missed her. Frozen on the spot, Jill knows she could suffocate if she dived deeper into that realisation. Instead, her fingers tug at his shirt, throwing herself at his mouth again like she’s starving. He gives in to it with relish.

-

There are bouts of merry laughs and feet scrambling behind his back, raising clouds of dust, far away from where he stands quietly with his gaze cast down. His small hand clutches tightly around something, but Nicholai squeezes his eyelids shut, not wanting to see it. The thing he holds in a tight grip.

Not wanting to realise what he has done. 

The other children giggle and shout playfully at each other, too engaged in their game of tag. They never pay attention to him, and when they do it’s to call him names like Kol’ka the Silent, or Kol’ka the Weirdo. A few times, they have thrown mud at him. Snowballs too. Nicholai’s usual answer involves punching or kicking them. He has received some in return as well. Natalia Andreevna, the teacher in the little nursery school, called his father once. The only thing he did after the reunion was slap Nicholai for letting the other children fight him, and told him to kick harder next time.

 _If you can’t look out for yourself, no one will_ , he repeats. Nicholai thinks he’d like to break his teeth more than anyone else’s, but he doesn’t—he knows what happens if he angers him. 

Meanwhile, the other children keep whispering behind his back or completely ignore him, but they laugh openly, with broad smiles across their faces, when they’re here. Nicholai doesn’t laugh much. Still, he likes the school. With its painted walls and flower beds, it’s the most colorful place Nicholai has ever seen. Spring has arrived, melting the ice and piles of snow as it bids goodbye to winter, sun peeking in the sky timidly. The flowers bloom and the air carries their scent around the yard. 

Birds chirp from the tree crowns that surround the garden, but to Nicholai they sound accusing and it fills him with shame. Tears gather inside his eyes, unspilled. He doesn’t let them run down, even if they sear through his sight like embers. Crying is forbidden, too. He can’t whine, or cry. It gives him headaches, he says. Nicholai has learnt to look out for himself, in that sense—and it means avoiding him and his wrath as much as he can. 

But he knows he has done a bad thing, a truly bad one, this time. Regret clogs his throat in whimpers he doesn’t let out, anger grows faster and clouds his thoughts. He feels himself shuddering lightly.

“Are you cold, Kolen’ka?”

Natalia Andreevna’s hand lightly touches his shoulder and it startles him, making him jump back with a frightened look. She is shocked by his reaction, but smiles at him like she usually does, her jowls pinkish and a warm gaze addressed to him. 

Her eyes wander down, taking notice of his hand. Nicholai rapidly hides it behind his back, his lower lip trembling. 

“No,” he replies succinctly, as he takes one step back.

Bending down a little, Natalia Andreevna lifts both her eyebrows, smelling the lie in his answer.

“What is that you don’t want me to see?” 

Nicholai shakes his head frantically. This time he can’t help sniffing, his view turning blurry. The tears are hot and aching and he flinches by instinct, coils down in fear. 

“Nothing,” he insists. But she extends his hand, palm up, waiting for him to relinquish the evidence of his crime. 

“You don’t have to worry. If you stole from...”

“I’m not a thief!” he yells angrily, cheeks flushed red in desperation.

“I know, Kolen’ka,” she says soothingly; another wail escapes Nicholai’s mouth. His hand is clammy around the little feathered body; his fingers hurt from the stiffened grip. “Come on, it will be our secret.”

With a quiver, Nicholai cranes down his neck, wrapped thickly in a woollen scarf, and sniffs again. The tip of his nose is cold, his eyes wet. His shuddering arm leaves the hidden spot behind his back and, finally, Nicholai unclenches his fist.

A small bird lies still on the tiny palm of his hand. Its plumage is brown, with yellow accents. The little black spheres it has for eyes feel hollow.

Natalia Andreevna’s gaze is one of mild horror; his arm trembles badly. But she doesn’t run away, she doesn’t yelp or calls him a murderer, like he has pictured. So he’s forced to stand there, in front of Natalia Andreevna, as she observes what he has done.

“I killed it,” Nicholai explains, sniffling heavily. He wipes away the sole tear running down his cheek with the heel of his gloved hand.

Taking a tentative step towards him, the teacher cups his hand and takes the small body. It’s still warm. When she picks it up, it feels like she has lifted a weight from him. His hand shoots back prickly, rubbing the palm against the coat he’s wearing as if it would take the memory of the bird away from his touch.

“Why did you kill it?” she asks quietly. “Did it scare you?”

“No,” he answers, staring down at his feet. His shoes are littered with sticky mud and dry grass from walking around the yard. “I only wanted to play.”

“Did you trap the bird, Kolen’ka?” she prods again in an attempt to coax more out of him.

“Yes.”

Natalia Andreevna kneels in front of him, not worried about sullying the brim of her long skirt in the wet soil. The dead bird lies cradled in her hands, its wings slightly parted from his body.

“But you know birds aren’t toys, right? They are alive, like you and me,” she explains, pointing at each other with her index.

He frowns, still avoiding to look at her directly. “I know that. I’m not stupid.” 

A sigh leaves her lips, followed by the faint fog from her exhale.

“Then why did you do it?”

“I was bored, and it was singing on the fence. I didn’t mean to kill it,” he replies between teeth. 

The bird tried to get away, and he simply crushed his fingers around him without thinking. But he did it the other children seem happy, and Nicholai has a hard time understanding what that feels like, and it makes him angry. He faintly remembers giggling when his mother tickled him as she tucked him into bed, but that is not possible now, so he has mostly forgotten it.

“Oh, Kolen’ka. You should have gone to play with the other children then. They’re having fun.” The soothing notes of Natalia Andreevna’s voice bring him back to the yard. She points her thumb at his classmates, running and jumping around.

Wiping a tear away with shame, the words come out of his mouth.

“They don’t like me.”

“Because you hit them,” she says, pity shifting her expression. “Every week you get into fights with them.”

“They make fun of me,” he blurts, staring down, burying the tip of his shoe in the mud.

Natalia Andreevna pats his head, smoothing over the messy bunch of pale short hair.

“And that’s bad, I know, I’ve told them too,” she starts, taking a deep breath. “If you all tried, you could be friends. But you can’t make friends if you hurt them. Sometimes it’s best to let them fly away first, you know? Like the little bird.”

Nicholai’s eyes land on the dead animal, still cradled in Natalia Andreevna’s palms, and it reminds him of her mother, when he found her, while his father paced around the kitchen in a bundle of nerves, grunting and yelling _it was a fucking accident_ over and over. Nicholai had glared at him, because he knew he was lying. Sitting beside her, he had simply grabbed her mother’s hand, tugging at her in case she would wake up.

 _Mama, mama_. She had remained silent, forever, and he never saw her again. 

The bird looks back at him, with a dead stare, and Nicholai feels guilt clenching at his throat. He decides he doesn’t like it, doesn’t want to feel it again.

Natalia Andreevna gives his shoulder a soft squeeze, and smiles at him.

“You just need to be nice to them. Then they’ll come back.”

Nicholai nods, although her words don’t ring true—because no one comes back for him. 

-

Nicholai wakes up with a choked gasp, beads of cold sweat gathered around his wrinkles. His stare is glued to the ceiling, surrounded by the dusk colors of the room. The features of Natalia Andreevna’s face are still vividly in front of him, as if she were there, hidden in the shadows. He blinks a few times before his brain acknowledges it has been a dream. Breath caught still in his throat, he props himself on one elbow, his sight blurry and his thoughts erratic, half-dormant. His hand quivers lightly. He raises his arm in front of his eyes and inspects it skeptically. 

He hasn’t had dreams like this since—since the first years in the army, he thinks. 

A long time has passed, with many walls between that life and his current one. The childhood memories, unburied and rotten, carry the stench of things he has forgotten—wants to forget, ignore. The creeping sensation of melting snow seeping through his worn-down shoes, its biting iciness freezing every bone in his body. He hates the cold as much as the things it brings back along.

His body keeps shivering, as though something has taken a hold of him. 

There’s a bitter taste on his tongue, nostrils still wide open up as air wheezes out of them frantically. He runs a hand through his hair, which is wet with sweat. A thin layer extends all over his skin. Drips descend down his muscles and leave a cold trail behind. 

After a few minutes, the panting becomes less breathless and his sight starts to focus on his surroundings. There’s the standing mirror on the left corner, next to a large, light blue painted dresser. On top of it, he can distinguish the mess of tiny bottles and crumpled clothes that lie spread in disarray. The Venetian blinds let in some of the vibrant lights from the street, casting striped shadows all over his side of the bed. He recognizes the furniture, the room—and the body that lies sound asleep beside him.

Sat on the mattress, with legs crossed and elbows resting over his knees, he turns his gaze. For a moment, he focuses on the sight of her, lying on the left side, as though she’s an anchor that helps him center. Nicholai listens to her breathing coming out of her slightly parted lips. His fingertips itch when he brings his hand to cover his face, pads rubbing the bridge of his nose. He feels like he’s hungover, despite not having ingested one drop of alcohol the night before. They didn’t waste time sharing a drink.

Shuffling the sheets aside, he slides to the foot of the bed, plunging both legs on the floor like stakes. He leans forward, still working on his own breathing. Without noticing, he starts to follow hers; the rhythm of her soft snoring. He perks up, shakes his head and shoots up from the mattress, pacing around the room.

Restlessness disturbs him. His gaze falls upon her again, but instead of an anchor she’s like a magnet, drawing him in against his will. A quick glance towards the alarm clock reveals it’s 3:45 am. Sooner than he usually leaves. He had intended to stay longer, if nothing else. Then the dream comes back, threatens to choke him; it’s like he feels the stupid bird clutched on his hand—or like he’s the thing, on the brim of suffocation.

His eyes remain fixed on her, without notion nor reason. He thinks, for a moment, that he got too carried away in their reunion—too desperate to meet her again. That it has stirred something in him, brought the useless memories back. Tisking at himself in reproach, he stops and crouches down to pick up his underwear. He needs to get out, take some fresh air, perhaps have a smoke. When his hands feel his discarded pants next to it, he notices the shape of his burner phone. He plucks it out and sees its screen shining white with an unread message notification warning in the middle of it. 

He frowns at the display, mouth twisted. It’s Sergei’s number, which can only mean one thing.

Work.

Throwing the phone aside, he hurries to get dressed first, sliding into his pants and pulling down the henley shirt over his head, after finding it hidden away under the bed. The idea of ignoring the message completely is tempting; but he knows it’d only lead to more problems in the future. So he grabs the cellphone again, his thumb pressing down the keys and opens the message.

_Meet me at Hotel National in Chicago on 7th Sep. Midday. Urgent business. Don’t be late._

Fuck, it’s all that comes to his mind.

Nicholai turns off the thing and jams it into his back pocket. His teeth grit and it takes him a few seconds to realise he’s utterly pissed off for no exact reason. Just because of a ridiculous dream that has managed to shake him off exaggeratedly. Now he needs to catch a flight in a matter of hours if he wants to remain on Sergei’s good side. He’s managed so far, but Nicholai isn’t stupid, just like Sergei isn’t. 

He tisks again, inadvertently, and her voice suddenly echoes.

“Hey, something's the matter?”

Rolled over the bed, sheet wrinkled around her waist, she lets out a timid yawn with half-lidded eyes, drowsiness printed in her question. She has one arm raised above her head, her shapely breasts perked up and the linen twisted around her thighs. She looks beautiful, like pulled out of a painting. One he could spend hours studying religiously. 

Letting out a frustrated huff, he controls himself and doesn’t bolt back to the bed.

“Go back to sleep.”

Her chest rises with the intake of air, still more asleep than conscious. Languidly, she rubs her eyes with the back of her hand and sighs.

“Ok. Uh, _skoro udivimsya?_ Yeah, that...” she mumbles, not entirely awake. After a second yawn, her lids close and she is gone back to sound sleep.

Nicholai can’t help but snort at the little mistake she’s made, wanting to say ‘until next time,’ as he reaches for the doorknob.

“ _Skoro uvidimsya, Milaya Valentine,_ ” he whispers back, lips pulled into a tired smirk.

He has a feeling they will run out of next times soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jill’s language mistake explained: she meant to say “until next time,” which is _Skoro uvidimsya_ (Скоро увидимся), but what she actually says is _Skoro udivimsya_ (Скоро удивимся), which means “we get surprised soon.” This was all Anuviel’s idea, and once again I cannot thank her enough.
> 
> Kol'ka and Kolen'ka: these are diminutive forms of Nicholai. Kol'ka would be what his classmates call him, while Kolen'ka is an endearing form addressed to children.
> 
>  _Milaya Valentine_ : there are no Miss/Mrs/Mr in Russian, so Anuviel suggested Nicholai could use the word _milaya_ (a term of endearment that can be translated as "sweetheart" and is used alongside names) instead and I cannot stress how much I LOVE THE SOUND OF IT. So beautiful.
> 
> -
> 
> LO&W is back!
> 
> Sorry this has taken two months, but I really needed to figure out the story beats first. It’s changed so much with every revision, I think it’s been for the best. I do this for fun and self-indulgement too, but I’d rather give you all the best fic I can. You deserve it after all the support I have received from you with this series ❤️ Can’t thank you enough. 
> 
> This is gonna be a longer ride, so brace yourselves and I sincerely hope you enjoy it ❤️


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sigh breaks out of her mouth, but Jill quickly shakes her head, hair cascading in its short strands around her face. It’s her first free day in a while, with no need to check up in the office, no need to go anywhere; so she would get up, have some breakfast, go to the park for a jog, shower, not check Nicholai’s envelope and, instead, loaf on the couch watching some stupid film she’d rent beforehand and drink beer. But she can have five more minutes.
> 
> Then the doorbell rings, hitting her like a well-timed slap.

Her eyes blink dully a few times before they crack open, wandering in a haze around her. As her sight sharpens, she barely remembers seeing the outline of his back drawn against pitch-black darkness, a whispered goodbye in another language when dawn is still hours away. The memory sprouts in a dreamlike mist that hampers her ability to distinguish what is real and what is not. A quick look at the clock on her bedside table tells her it’s almost 10 in the morning, which seems real enough, although it’s much later than she usually allows herself to oversleep. Warm sunlight bathes her sprawled body on the bed. Hairs stand on end thanks to the already chilly September breeze that breaches through the old, cracked frames of the windows. Then she notices the stripes the light paints over the wall, guiding her eyes to the bedroom’s door, slightly ajar. 

Suddenly, he’s standing there like a ghost, taking one last look at her before walking away. Jill blinks again and washes the flash of memory with a groan.

Stretching her sore arms, she rolls around to the side. All her limbs numb with the strain from last night, although she guesses her exhaustion comes not just from her muscles, but her mind. One hand distractedly smoothes over the sheet’s wrinkles, the last physical remnant of his presence in the room. His scent lingers in the pillow, but that’s not new.

She rubs her eyes drowsily with the heel of her hand, a sigh trapped in her mouth, in an attempt to wring any drop of slumber from her body. It’s a half success, because her eyelids feel heavy and she doesn’t move an inch, staring aimlessly to the specks of dust floating in the air against the light. The thought settles in, recalling how he apparently left the night before. Early. It’s an irrelevant detail, but it irks her even if there’s no reason for it.

After all, he stays the nights, not the mornings. And she’s fine with that, really, she repeats to herself, kneading at her temple, her body still curled up on the mattress.

A sigh breaks out of her mouth, but Jill quickly shakes her head, hair cascading in its short strands around her face. It’s her first free day in a while, with no need to check up in the office, no need to go anywhere; so she would get up, have some breakfast, go to the park for a jog, shower, not check Nicholai’s envelope and, instead, loaf on the couch watching some stupid film she’d rent beforehand and drink beer. 

Yeah, that sounds like a plan—because it’s her usual post-mission routine for a couple of days. She doesn’t allow herself to switch off more than that.

But she can have five more minutes, she tells herself as her forearm falls onto her face and her chest swells up in slow, peaceful beats. 

Then the doorbell rings, hitting her like a well-timed slap.

-

With a groan, she braces the pillow and squeezes it around her head. For a moment, Jill prays it’s all been her imagination and the noise comes from a neighbor. The bustling street rumble grows louder, so she might have misheard. But the doorbell rings again, followed by a soft knock on the door.

Glaring at the ceiling, an exasperated grumble thrums in her throat. In the end, she decides to abandon the comfort of the bed and drags her feet to the hardwood. Her toes curl as she stretches arms and legs, another grunt escaping her lips, but she stands up from the foot of the bed. 

One more knock.

“I’m coming!” she announces from the door’s gap, rapidly putting on a new pair of panties from a half-opened drawer. Next she grabs a t-shirt and pulls it over her head, still too dozy to avoid getting it tangled up around her elbows. Grumbling, she pushes it down and finds herself in a somewhat acceptable attire.

Another timid knock.

Jill huffs an annoyed sigh while she quickly catches a knee-length robe that’s precariously hanging from the doorknob of her bedroom, wrapping it around her body. She hurries to the entrance, cinching the flimsy belt as tightly around her waist as she can manage.

Peeking beyond the half-opened door, the chain still in place, she squints. In the corridor, the small figure of Mrs Geller welcomes her with a radiant smile on her face. Jill notices a delicious smell wafting up to her nostrils.

“Good morning, Jill,” the woman chirps, too energetically in comparison.

Jill has to clear her throat before speaking up.

“Ah, Mrs Geller, good morning,” she repeats back, as if forming a whole sentence demands a great effort. But she takes a step back and removes the chain to open the door fully. She hugs herself, a bit consciously. “Did something happen?”

The woman simply shrugs, lifting up a plate she’s holding on her hands with pride. It’s covered in a white cloth, but Jill recognizes it’s where the smell comes from. Sweet and warm, so nice it almost makes her forget her neighbor had dragged her out of bed against her will.

“I prepared some banana bread yesterday with my daughter-in-law. Take, this is for you,” she says, pushing the plate into her arms. Jill untangles herself and catches it on time.

“Oh, I’m…” she stutters, blinking confusedly at the home-made cake, then back at the woman. “Thank you, Mrs Geller. You didn’t have to.” An honest smile crosses her lips.

“Let me know if you like it. I’ll bring you more next time.”

Looking down at the delicious piece of covered cake, Jill decides she doesn’t have the heart to send the woman away. Mrs Geller’s niceness comes unprompted in small moments like this, when she knocks quietly at her door to share food because she’s been thinking about Jill’s wellbeing. 

For once, she feels she should return the favor. 

“I was actually going to have breakfast now,” Jill blurts, pointing at the bread. “Are you up for some tea or coffee with a slice?” 

Mrs Geller lets out a hum, checking her wristband watch. After a brief pause, weighing her options, the woman beams another smile at Jill and nods.

“That sounds like an excellent idea.”

-

As the only neighbor she’s had any contact with since she arrived in the building, Mrs Geller has not only made her way into her apartment, but in Jill’s life. While everyone had ignored the new tenant from the fourth floor when she moved, Mrs Geller had taken it upon herself to make sure Jill felt like she belonged. Ever since, she knocks once or twice a week to her door, just to warn her about some problem with the pipes in the heating system, or to ask for a bit of salt, or to give her freshly baked chocolate cookies. 

Jill finds it endearing, loving the motherly care she bathes her with. Others would find her too overbearing, but Jill sees through that and appreciates her selfless kindness. It dulls away the loneliness, sometimes. 

“It smells incredible,” Jill says, walking towards the kitchen while taking in the sweet scent.

She hears Mrs Geller’s steps behind her, as the door closes.

“My, look at this,” the woman yelps with a deep cackle, arms bent on each side, hands at the hips.

When her face shoots up from the plate, her eyes widen in terror, noticing for the first time what has sparked Mrs Geller’s comment. 

“Shit,” she utters under her breath.

People like Chris make a mess of every space they inhabit; Jill hides her cards better, at least at work. During her time spent in the army, it had been drilled down to her brain. Her apartments—well, they are a different matter, ending up like a mess of varying degrees. After Arklay, it has worsened. She can never have the laundry ready and stored in one place, pieces of clothes spread around her bedroom and the living room. Her desk is crammed up with paperwork she never files. The kitchen’s counter remains hidden under empty pizza boxes and other leftovers she forgets to throw in the trash.

Now she sees even the glimpse of a blue bra over the sofa, her top and pants thrown in a pile next to the kitchen’s arch.

Watching her surroundings, the actual mess she lives in, red creeps up her neck all of a sudden. The banana bread plate drops down with a loud thump onto the counter. With quick feet, she springs out and starts picking up the discarded clothes and underwear around the sofa and—of course, four beer cans lying around the coffee table. 

“Sorry about the mess,” Jill apologizes profusely, biting her bottom lip in shame. “Didn’t have time to clean up.”

Mrs Geller, rolling up her sleeves, rushes to help her and grabs the crumpled ball of clothes from her.

“Do you need any help? I could come over one day and lend you a hand,” she offers, without any trace of scold behind her words. 

Still, Jill can’t help but feel like a college student whose parents have come over her place and witnessed how she lives among piles of trash. As much of an exaggeration it is, it’s too close to reality and Jill’s cheeks redden more.

“Oh, no, don’t worry. It’s just…,” she blabbers, standing still for a second, her hand waving around. “I need to take a couple days off and do some cleaning.”

“Too much work?” Mrs Geller asks with a sad smile, pushing the laundry together on the couch in one bundle. 

“Yeah. I came from a two week trip a few days ago.” She tilts her head to the kitchen. “Come on, let’s get that breakfast. Tea?”

Mrs Geller nods, following her footsteps. The kitchen is small enough that they are crammed together inside, but the woman busies herself clearing out the counter while Jill picks up two mugs from the cupboard.

“Why don’t you take some holidays?” 

“I wish, but my job isn’t that simple,” Jill scoffs while filling the kettle with tap water. “I’ll be fine, though,” she adds quickly, trying to remove some somberness from her reply, and bows her head as she lights the stove with a match

Mrs Geller approaches her, taking the kettle from her side and placing it over the stove once the flames flicker.

“I understand.” She gives Jill’s hand a light squeeze. “But, if you ever need to talk, just know I’m here for you, sweetie. You’re so young…”

“Thank you,” Jill says, needing twice the time to pay attention to her last sentence.  _ You’re so young.  _ With a shake of her head, pulling out a tin can full of teabags from a ledge, she throws Mrs Geller a puzzled look. “So young? What do you mean?”

The tin can vanishes from her grasp when the woman takes it away and plucks two bags from inside, fingers slightly trembling as the bags are dropped into the mugs. Her lip is caught between her teeth, and Jill gulps down, knowing instinctively she wants to talk about something albeit with no idea of what it can be.

“I never told you before because I didn’t want to pry, but…,” Mrs Geller finally starts, hands gripped at the counter’s edge. “When you moved in, I knew who you were, Jill.”

Mrs Geller’s words are pronounced like a confession—as if she’s overstepped some unspeakable bounds. Jill shoots her a quizzical look, brow slightly wrinkled. 

“You knew?” she echoes.

“From the news and all that. It was a brief mention, but I recognized your face,” she gasps, cheeks reddened and a lost stare that averts Jill’s own eyes. Breathing deeply, she looks up at her finally, a sad expression drawn on the lines of her face. “I know you were a police officer in Raccoon City during that awful thing that happened, whatever it was.”

“Oh.”

The confession should’ve probably stirred up a different reaction in her. Mrs Geller, a normal woman so distant from the monsters and the nightmares and the big pharma companies’ corruption, knows her story—a chunk of it, narrowing the thin, fictitious line that Jill has created to separate both worlds.

Averting her gaze, Jill chews her bottom lip under Mrs Geller’s watchful look. It has never crossed her mind that regular people could so easily link her to Raccoon City—that they would see her and find a face known from news reports, those that usually don’t go beyond a name and a photo and don’t seem real enough to exist in the world. As if her survival in Raccoon City belongs in a different reality, far from this one, even if the blunt of its effects is felt here and now, in the dozens of injuries and scars her body collects. 

It seems unreal that, for people like Mrs Geller, Raccoon City is such a disconnected thing from their daily lives, while it permeates every aspect of her own. She will never be rid of it—a truth she tries to come to terms with, no matter how difficult it is to swallow the pill. 

She’s on the verge of tears, because her neighbor keeps staring at her with a deep sadness that speaks volumes; but her tears are numbered and she doesn’t allow her to spill them gratuitously—no matter how many times they threaten to come crashing down when she thinks about her first days at the RPD, when she thinks about her life that blew up with the rest of the city. When it becomes apparent that the good memories from the city start to fade away, leaving behind only the stench and the rotten flesh.

She wraps herself with her own arms, concealing a slight shudder.

“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to upset you…” Mrs Geller blurts, gnawing concern caught in her voice.

Jill waves her hand and forces a little smile on her lips.

“No, no, it’s okay, it’s just…” she stammers for a bit, her sight blurs. She thinks about Brad, Kendo and her daughter, and the civilians she couldn’t save. The empty streets except for the hollow echoes of living dead. The stomping of the monster in tow. “Bad memories. Too many.”

Mrs Geller’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder. As Jill swallows down the lump in her throat, it’s like two hands are wringing around her neck.

“But I’m better now.”

A half-truth, a half-lie; but she wants to believe it too. 

After a short silence, where Mrs Geller gapes at her, struggling to voice useless platitudes, the kettle hisses. 

-

“I can’t even imagine what it was like,” Mrs Geller mumbles, finally, watching Jill pour steaming, hot water onto each mug. Tea, milk, and bread ready, they both walk to the counter and sit down. “The things people said about it…” she continues, her voice lathered in disbelief.

“You don’t know what happened, right?” Jills states, sitting down.

Mrs Geller takes a seat next to her, and her hand lands heavy on the counter, fingers clasped around the handle. Her eyelids flicker and her shoulders shrug in confusion. When she talks, it’s in a quivery tone—because perplexity is the feeling Raccoon City gauges out of normal people. 

“Well, they say it was a sickness from the rats that infected the whole city very quickly, because of that pharma company, and everyone went mad or died. It was spreading so fast they had to…,” she stammers, eyes closed for a second. “Well, you know. I couldn’t believe our own government would erase a city like that. And then protestors claimed there were monsters, talking about conspiracies… The kind of stuff you see on a late night television. I don’t know, it was too much to process.”

Jill has been aware of how Raccoon City fared publicly; that is: a total reporting disaster from day one. But she has refused to watch the special programs, most of the news, the newspaper’s articles. Whenever someone edged a closer take on the truth, talking about living corpses, they found little supporters and many naysayers.

So she sighs, swirling the teaspoon around her mug.

“I really shouldn’t speak much, but my work involves making sure those who are responsible... see justice.”

She’s tempted to say  _ make them pay _ , instead of  _ see justice _ , because at her lowest moments the only thing that seems to pervade is the anger. The desire to see the fuckers at Umbrella get what they deserve, for what they have done to humanity. But the words usually die down in her tongue, reminding herself that this is not about a personal vendetta, not about revenge—she needs to do it because it’s the right thing.

Mrs Geller looks back at her with an inquisitive, sad stare. Her hand wraps the mug as she sips at the hot drink, after pulling the teabag out.

“It was such a tragedy, and you survived it.”

Finding a sliver of strength, Jill curls up her lips in a smile, taking herself a sip from her own tea.

“Hey, don’t give me that look, Mrs Geller. I’m better now, really,” she insists, both because she doesn’t want to burden the woman with worry and—because she’d rather move on from the topic.

Giving a quick nod, Mrs Geller catches her intent and smiles back at her.

“I’m happy to hear that.” Her eyes narrow as she smiles, rosy cheeks tinted in pink. Then a giggle bursts out of her lungs, drawing an impish look. “That boyfriend of yours might help a lot.”

Jill’s mouth dries up immediately, drops of tea threatening to spill out as she’s halfway swigging. Choking lightly, she puts down the mug and coughs into her hand, air missing from her lungs. The mere mention of the word  _ boyfriend  _ sends shudders along her back, makes her body squirm in a way she can’t control. 

“What? What do you…?” she trails off, suddenly realising she’s rushing into assumptions, that Mrs Geller might not be talking about who Jill thinks, that she should not even have the information to consider such an idea. “What makes you think...?”

Jill attempts drinking again from her tea, which burns her tongue, and clears her throat with a grimace. 

“Dear, these walls have always been paper-thin,” she chuckles amusedly, forming dimples around her mouth.

The underlying meaning leaves Jill frozen on her seat, slightly gaping. If her cheeks could burn hotter, she would probably be consumed by her own sense of embarrassment.

She has  _ heard _ them.

“Oh, shit. Fuck. I’m so, so sorry, Mrs Geller,” Jill starts blabbering, leaning back against the counter while her hands cover her face.

Mrs Geller lets out a mischievous giggle, swinging her mug in front of her.

“It’s nothing. Look, the previous tenants spent the day bickering and yelling at each other. You just have some fun from time to time, and I have earplugs.”

“No, no, you have every right to be angry,” she rushes to add, almost leaning completely over the surface with hands still concealing her face. A muffled groan comes out of her lips, eyes squeezed shut. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

“Nonsense. If I got riled up about every single loud noise in this building, I would be wearing a long face all day.” Mrs Geller’s little nose wrinkles in indignation, and the gesture draws a smile from Jill, despite her sense of shame still seeping through her cheeks in flushed red. “And you’re the most well-behaved tenant around here, Jill.”

“You’re still too forgiving, Mrs Geller,” Jill laughs, finally moving her palms away. Face still burning hot, she feels some of the tension easing, at least. 

Mrs Geller, waving off her comment, shifts her weight on the stool. One elbow resting on the counter, she gives Jill an inquisitive look, followed by a meek smile.

“Well, you can indulge this nosy old lady. I’m curious, who is this mysterious boyfriend?”

Boyfriend. The word makes her mind derail impossibly again into a territory that hasn’t crossed her mind, because it feels foreign and surreal. Boyfriend reminds her of exchanging looks across a room and blushing inadvertently, giggles, the fucking butterflies in your stomach, going to the cinema together, pet names and cuddling together on the couch. It sounds so… stupid, when applied to them. So removed from whatever she and Nicholai share—if there is even a  _ them  _ to refer to, that is. It brings back the invasive thought that ate her away just a few nights ago, that she has no concept to explain what they are anymore.

But that is a tangled up ball of issues she won’t discuss with her neighbor, as much as she appreciates her concern and care. So Jill curbs her answer in the most succinct but honest way she can come up with.

“Well, he’s… he’s not my boyfriend. It’s complicated.”

Drinking from her tea, Mrs Geller shakes her head and blows away a wild strand of auburn hair from her face. 

“You’re a smart woman, I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” she adds, comforting, putting down the mug. “He sure knows what  _ he’s _ doing, boyfriend or not,” she points out after a brief, heavy pause, and the woman giggles playfully at her own comment like she’s been caught telling a naughty joke in secret. 

Jill’s jowls are aflame, heat burning her skin from inside out. Despite herself, she can’t help but laugh at Mrs Geller’s remark.

“He does,” Jill concedes, with a timid smile.

The answer has added layers to it that Mrs Geller would never notice because it’s not only about the tongue-in-cheek joke about her sex life. He knows what he does when he rubs his fingers through her scalp, stealing kisses from her lips when he thinks she’s distracted by his fingers, as if she would not know he’s kissing her like that day on a February night, one year ago, when he showed up in her apartment bleeding and injured. He knows what those gestures mean, what he says without speaking; and she stupidly treasures them.

But that stays only with her, buried deep between her ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give both Jill and Nicholai their own chapters before things start to get complicated, to give them some room to breathe on their own. Since this one is Jill’s, I found it fitting to focus on her trauma, which also plays a big part in her relationship with Nicholai, and how all her different worlds start to merge. Also felt like giving her some motherly bonding time with Mrs Geller.
> 
> Next one will be Nicholai’s! Thank you for all the comments and kudos ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Get to the point,” Nicholai presses, tapping his fingers on his thigh.
> 
> “There’s an unaccounted loose end we hadn’t considered.” As if trying his patience, Sergei grabs the wine glass and sips from it slowly, savoring the taste of the drink. “Carlos Oliveira.”

His eyelids fall shut the moment his head hits the back cushion of the seat. He frowns, headache threatening to crash any moment, fingers clutched around the arm rests. He can hear the incessant blabber of a couple sitting next to him, the rhythmic thumps of the flight attendants that walk past.

He’s barely awake by the time they take off. A muted calm settles around him and drowns the nearby noises. Most of all, it drowns his own thoughts, which he’s thankful for. There’s nothing he wants more than shutting down his brain, at this point. 

But the images come back with a vengeance—except they are not of a small school at the end of a snowy street, but a long, white corridor stained by black soot, the smell of burnt paper wafting through the air. His hands twitch, the memory of his fingertips brushing against her hair as he shields her from the explosion fresh and tangible. As if he’s there again, back to that instant where his instincts betrayed him for the first time.

He wakes up with the echo of her breathing next to his while his heart races inside his ribcage, eyes crack open all of a sudden, a huff caught short in his throat. The couple beside him are asleep, snoring lightly. Despite his rushing pulse and sweat dripping down his neck, he doesn’t attract any attention. Nicholai blinks, scratches his neck. The scars have somewhat healed, but the uneven skin reminds him of the corridor, of her body trapped under him, of his slow realisation and the dread that followed.

The second attempt at sleep doesn’t bode better. He’s in an underground lab in Raccoon City, the heel of his boot pushed against a small hand, and she clings and hangs in the air while he watches, but this time it’s not with with the amusement he felt, but an uncanny revulsion **,** and his foot only presses harder against her fingers, ripping thin skin off them. A chuckle reverberates, and it’s his, but he’s not laughing this time. 

He watches her fall and, even in the dream, he knows she survives, yet his eyes snap open bathed in something nearing terror.

After the third attempt, he gives up and decides he’s just not getting any sleep. Without caring about waking up the couple, he shoots out of his seat, making a beeline to the bathroom. He throws up the coffee he had managed to drink at the airport. He still feels sick to the stomach. 

-

When he crosses the threshold of the entrance doors, his nose is assaulted by the scent of seafood. It hangs heavy in the air, bordering on unpleasant. Standing in the middle of the entrance, he surveys the sea of dining tables that lay beyond. Nicholai notices the waitress behind the host stand as the young woman approaches him swiftly. They make eye contact, and her face contorts into a wide smile, the usual pleasantries ready at the tip of her tongue. 

He raises one hand and waves her off.

“Save it.”

As he marches inside the large dining hall, stumping his boots on the wooden floor, he hears the muted and annoyed complaints from the waitress. Tables covered in fine cloths are spread around the space, separated by wooden partitions richly decorated with intricate carvings and a layer of golden paint. It’s definitely the sort of place Sergei would choose for a meal—and a meeting.

Nicholai walks decidedly, ignoring the few curious looks his rundown attire has garnered from the clientele. His feet stop in front of a table set up for two, standing next to a window that faces the busy plaza outside the hotel’s restaurant. He drags the empty chair’s legs away, making the wooden planks screech under it, and plummets down; a slight sneer hangs on his lips as he glares at Sergei, seated on the other side of the table.

“This better be worth it, Sergei,” he snarls in Russian as a greeting, leaning back on the chair, one leg thrown over his knee.

There is silence for a brief, tense moment. The man sits upright and barely reacts to Nicholai’s presence. Meanwhile, he can hear the other guests cutting down their expensive filets from their tables, the silver knives scratching against pricey porcelain, the tinkling sounds of glasses and wine being poured blended with quiet whispers. Sergei takes one bite from his _nelma_ , then puts down the fork on the plate. Elbows resting on the surface, he finally acknowledges Nicholai with a sharp glance. Unsurprisingly, he maintains an impeccable appearance; well-groomed, hair perfectly slicked back and a recent shave. His collar’s shirt is starched, the savoy blue suit ironed until no wrinkle is left. 

He smiles, unfazed by Nicholai’s irritation.

“I want to test a new hire, and I value your opinion the most, my friend,” he announces, nonchalantly, palms laid out on the tablecloth.

Nicholai’s reply comes in a loud scoff.

“The reward for my friendship is an urgent babysitting job?”

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” Sergei concedes, adjusting his cuffs. “Critical, I might add.”

His thoughts are painted blank, perhaps exhaustion taking the better from him. It’s as if Sergei’s words drag in his ears and all that is left is a void, a silence. A pulse of pain breaks through his skull; the headache waiting in the back. He will make sense of it later, Nicholai guesses. 

But he’s got a bad feeling, and it festers inside him as he tries to regain some focus.

“His name is Bodrovski.” Sergei’s voice makes him blink twice; he’s picked up the fork and knife again, delicately flaking the fish meat before raising the fork to his mouth. “A fellow compatriot with a checkered past, but an excellent surveillance expert from what I have been informed.”

Nicholai starts picking at the pants’ fabric, sinking his nails on it.

“What? Are you getting paranoid?” he darts, one eyebrow lifted up.

“Paranoia implies a lack of evidence, and I’m afraid I have had plenty of it to know there are many people ready to betray us,” Sergei explains, without taking his eyes off the plate. Then a chuckle leaves his lips. “That’s what’s keeping you busy lately, isn’t it?”

Nicholai’s eyes narrow, his gaze locked on the man. The statement unnerves him in an inexplicable way, something deep buried between the lines, and it frustrates him. It is the first time he’s incapable of deciphering what Sergei implies outright. Maybe it’s fear of finally getting caught creeping up and clouding his judgement, because he knows what he’s doing, and he’s certain Sergei could be throwing him an underhanded accusation.

Or it could be his own paranoia fucking him up. 

He stiffs in his seat and tisks, but keeps a stony glare.

“It is, and whatever this guy’s job is, I could do it myself. No need for new hires, or making me fly all the way here without warning.” 

Sergei raises his head and looks at Nicholai, smirking.

“Well, aren’t you grumpy today. Did I interrupt anything, friend?”

“My beauty sleep,” Nicholai fumes, a sneering grin painted over his face. “What’s the deal with this Bodrovski?”

“He brought to my attention some interesting intel that could shine some light in our current problems, and if it’s true, he could be a real asset. Have you heard about what happened in Toronto?” he posits, clearly amused, fingers tied together under his chin.

Nicholai clicks his tongue.

“I hear many things.” Sergei doesn’t dignify him with an answer, so he continues. “I knew about the smugglers. You never asked me to stop them, so I didn’t.”

Sergei unhooks his fingers, picking up the fork and knife again.

“No, I didn’t ask you because that damage was done,” he agrees, impaling a piece of the salmon on his fork. After swallowing, he wipes his mouth clean with the expensive-looking napkin and resumes. “I’m more interested in learning how such lowlifes keep acquiring our merchandise. How classified information keeps being leaked. Bodrovski might hold the answer.”

“Get to the point,” Nicholai presses, tapping his fingers on his thigh.

“There’s an unaccounted loose end we hadn’t considered.” As if trying his patience, Sergei grabs the wine glass and sips from it slowly, savoring the taste of the drink. “Carlos Oliveira.”

Light stripes draw shadows on Sergei’s face, but Nicholai can see the shape of his ugly mug when he tips up one corner of his mouth. The scar across his cheek stretches out; he’s studying Nicholai, watching him like a hawk. He will find nothing, Nicholai reassures himself—only a blank stare, no facial muscle twitch that may betray him. Inside, however, he feels a cold grip wrapping around his neck, ready to bend it in two with a quick snap. His jaw clenches tightly, teeth gritting. His fingertips continue to tap distractedly over the fabric of his pants. 

“Oliveira died in Raccoon City. He was at the Spencer Memorial when I blew it up.”

Sergei shakes his head, his smile more pronounced now.

“According to Bodrovski’s intel, he survived,” he clarifies, not without a certain sense of smugness in his voice. “He might be helping scum like these smugglers, or even that anti-biohazard unit that has been a thorn in our sides since the beginning.” 

A mocking laugh bursts out of Nicholai’s chest, as he throws his head back. 

“Sergei, you’re losing your mind and wasting my time. Even if he’s alive, it’s impossible he knows shit,” he blurts, brow raised in perfectly acted disbelief.

“That is what intrigues me. He shouldn’t know anything. But he might have other connections. Perhaps he already was a mole when he joined the UBCS, like that Wong woman back in Arklay,” he adds with a flair. “In any case, he’s a loose end and a liability. I want him gone and you'll do just that along with Bodrovski without raising suspicion. This requires a discreet touch.”

“I’ll charge extra,” he says non-committedly. 

Sergei chuckles under his breath.

“That won’t be a problem.” Sergei produces a thick envelope from the suit’s jacket. He puts it on the tablecloth and slides it towards Nicholai. “Meet Bodrovski tomorrow. All the information is there.”

Nicholai picks the envelope, weighs it. His glance trails down to the offending thing and back towards Sergei. 

“How do you know this guy is not talking bullshit? He could be the mole.” 

“All the more reason to assign you this. You’re my trusted man, Nicholai.” His grin shifts, almost wickedly. “Besides, if Oliveira is indeed alive, it’s only right you are the one to remove him. However, check twice this time, will you? I would not want that to remain a stain in your career.”

Sergei’s smirk widens as the insult lands, tearing a thin cut on Nicholai’s ego. He doesn’t move an inch, still leant back on the chair, leg crossed, palm against his thigh. Scoffing loudly, Nicholai drags the chair on its back legs and springs up from it.

“Consider it done,” he utters.

“You’re not staying for lunch?” Sergei asks with amusement, sipping again from his wine.

Stopping beside the man’s chair, Nicholai turns his head and directs an icy cold glare down to him.

“Do you have more work for me?”

Sergei grins again, and Nicholai has never found the gesture so insufferable as he does now.

“No. I suspect you’ll have your hands full with this one.”

“Then our business is done, _my friend_.”

-

Steam blurs his vision when he exits the shower, and he kicks aside the pile of folded towels he had grabbed earlier from a shelf. 

He rinses himself with one of them, coarse and overly washed, until his skin reddens—as if it will rub away more than water excess. The patch of mirror that’s not covered in condensation shows the faded burn marks, the ones around his neck, and he takes a peek from the corner of his eye. A darker shade than the rest of his skin, a wrinkled spot that protrudes so lightly it can barely be noticed; he does, everytime he sees himself in a mirror, everytime he scratches it, everytime she strokes the scar, her thumb trailing up and down. 

Nicholai walks to the basin and, when he wipes the mirror clean, his eyes stare back, his expression unreadable. He starts shaving in silence. The scraping sound of the razor against his skin fills the cheap hotel room, followed by his tapping on the sink to wash away the shaved hairs from his graying stubble.

After finishing, he turns off the lights and leaves the charged air of the bathroom. The room welcomes him back in its emptiness, which is familiar because he’s spent nights in a hundred different similar rooms, hopping from one country to another. Like so many others, this one is barely furnished: a small desk stands near the foot of the bed, with its creaky mattress, and there’s a built-in closet where he has thrown the travel bag he keeps ready at every moment. His eyes wander towards the duvet, where the envelope waits for him almost ominously.

Fixing the towel around his waist, Nicholai sits down and opens it. There’s a single piece of paper that he recognizes instantly, since he has received countless similar contracts before. Beneath it, a voluminous dossier on Bodrovski promises to be a dull reading that will drag him to fall asleep on the spot. 

Between the dossier and contract file, there’s a written note stuck inside. Sergei's polished handwriting feels overly elegant for such a back alley dealing. It’s the date and place for the meeting with Bodrovski.

_Lucky Grill Diner, 11 pm, 755 W Plainfield Road._

No rest for the wicked, he snorts to himself. 

His nail picks at the note’s corner, one feet tapping on the floor.

Three years ago, this wouldn’t have made him batter an eye. Realising that tiny but fundamental fact makes his teeth screech, biting his tongue in anger addressed only at himself for being so fucking stupid. Hesitation grows inside like a seed sprouting after being watered and fed. 

He throws aside the envelope, papers scattered around gingerly, and starts roaming the room, eyes hidden under the heel of his hands and a grunt burts out of his lungs. He’d be tempted to punch the wall if he wasn’t certain it’d tear a hole in it. 

When he turns around, Nicholai fixes his gaze on the crumpled heap of dirty clothes he had used for almost forty eight hours straight; the ones he wore yesterday when he went to her apartment—and he grabs the shirt.

He brings the bundle to his nose, and sniffs.

Her scent transpires, hidden behind the reek of sweat collected in crowded airports and deodorant smell. It hasn’t vanished since last night, when he left her place in a rush and didn’t bother to grab a change of clothes before jumping into the first plane to Chicago.

He breathes in again, clutching the crumpled shirt, closes his eyes and thinks of her.

Thinks of her deft fingers crawling under his shirt and pulling it off him, pads running up and down his muscles like she’s tracing them. Thinks of warm lips littering brief kisses all over his chest, paying worship to each scar, and traveling lower until they stop at his hipbone and she looks up with a mischievous grin. Thinks of the sound of her biting chuckle, as she shakes her head because of some scathing comment he’s blurted, followed by the quick-witted retort he always expects eagerly, craving this unsaid rapport they’ve garnered. Thinks of the handful of dinners together. Thinks of how well she fits between his arms, tucked at night, as if he was made just for that purpose. Thinks about the way she’s started to throw phrases in Russian at him, still rusty but incredibly good for such a short time. Thinks about those moments when he finds himself like a fish out of water, his lips tipping up in an inadvertent smile when he hears her attempts. Thinks about that time he spent an hour teaching her how to properly swear and insult in Russian, the bubbling effect of the alcohol creeping up her red cheeks and the slight spinning sensation his head suffered that night.

Nicholai thinks a thousand thoughts no one had produced in him. 

Pushing away the piece of clothing, he also thinks about an angry threat made out in a dirty back alley long ago that still echoes in the present. _If you ever lay a hand on him, I’ll be the first to pull the trigger. Understood?_ Back then, his answer had been amused, biting. _Is that a promise?_ The question lingers in the air, suffocating.

He finally thinks about endings—because this one reaches closer.

There is a simple solution. The one choice he has considered throughout these last years; to stop seeing her, ripping off the needle in one quick motion, and avoid losing everything he’s gained in his life for a whim. But. There’s a fucking _but_ shaped like her that he denies and buries and it always comes back like a fateful omen that pursues him.

Because she’s not _just_ a whim anymore, and for some unfathomable reason he can’t bring himself to let go of her, and pretending otherwise is simply fooling himself more than he already does.

He has no name for what she is, or for what she does that makes him have a meltdown in the middle of a fucking hotel room, miles away from where she is. 

It complicates everything, and Nicholai detests complications. 

His feet walk back and he plops down on the mattress, without caring about the dispersed papers lying over it. His eyes narrow, burning a hole into the wall, stretching his fists until the muscles hurt from exertion.

 _Something won, something lost,_ he had told her once, and the words come to bite him back, unsure now on what it is that he’d rather win—and what he’d rather lose.

He plucks the note from under another sheet of paper and stares at it, his mouth running dry.

Dilemmas don’t mesh well with him; they imply you have some sort of moral code to guide you. He doesn’t want one, doesn’t have it. Nicholai crumbles the note under his fingers until he tosses it in the nearby bin; an irritated growl slithers out his lungs, still seated on the mattress, water dripping from his hair down his back, as he muses in silence over choices and crossing lines.

-

Nicholai looks back to the diner’s door when it chimes open. A man clad in dark clothes, wool hat tightened around his head and pulled down to his ears, enters. Nicholai studies him quickly, but it’s enough to realise it’s him—Bodrovski. From afar, he doesn’t look particularly dangerous, though he stands out around the place like a sore thumb—though he could say the same thing about himself. In the time he’s been waiting, he has been able to examine the place and its surroundings. The diner is a greasy road restaurant whose usual customers range from travellers arriving to the city or leaving it to truck drivers, with the occasional junkie and drunkard popping up. It’s old, the metallic panels behind the counter dirty and old-fashioned. The large window pane next to his booth shows nothing but the gleams of traffic lights, and he remembers seeing a group of hangover college students laughing outside. Inconspicuous and practically deserted, which is the perfect solution for a dealing like this; and the reason Sergei has chosen it, in the first place.

He snaps his fingers and nods when the younger man finds him in the practically empty cafeteria. Bodrovski turns his lips into a short grin, and strides confidently towards the booth Nicholai is occupying.

He doesn’t move like a new hire; he does like someone who knows he has a trump card hidden away, somewhere. 

“Bodrovski, I imagine,” Nicholai utters.

“And you must be the famed Silver Wolf,” he answers, sliding into the booth, forearms leaning forward on the table already.

He also notices the unsettled gaze of the waitress behind the counter from the corner of her eye when she hears them speak in Russian. She approaches them quickly after Bodrovski sits down, gives him a discolored mug and pours them coffee from a fresh pot before scrambling away as quickly as her feet allow her. Nicholai would’ve found it funny, under different circumstances, though he can’t blame the woman’s mistrust. From outside, they ooze of shady dealings and danger, most likely. Against his will, like so many other details, it brings back a memory of her—of that time she glaringly accused him of being a ‘walking stereotype.’ Seeing the wary look from the waitress, they are not helping alleviate any prejudices. He blinks to shake away the thought, and the wry chuckle he’d have given in answer to her, and focuses on the man sitting in front of him. 

“Just Nicholai,” he replies after a brief silence, looking down on the dossier, tapping the piece of paper, and goes straight to the point. “I see you made a career out of blackmail back home. Interesting.”

Bodrovski smirks, eyes narrowing, and takes a gulp from his drink.

“You could say I’m good at keeping people on their toes.”

Nicholai sniffs the veiled implication despite the tone in which his voice comes out.

“Is that why Sergei hired you?” he inquires, arching one eyebrow.

His reply comes with a shrug.

“The old man is getting suspicious. That incident with the dead lawyer years ago stirred him up badly, from what I heard.”

His back stiffs lightly, knuckles turning a whiter shade as his grip on the mug tightens.

“I remember it.”

“I’m sure you do.” 

An icy, sick feeling takes home at the pit of his stomach, and the truth takes a sharper form in front of him, disguised as double edged compliments. Bodrovski’s piercing glare leaves very little room for doubt now. Perhaps he doesn’t even intend to be subtle—perhaps he’s been ordered not to be.

Bluntness from Sergei comes in its own kind of wrapping. Finally, Nicholai sees through it and recognizes clearly for the first time what this is: a test. The bastard was testing _his_ loyalty. Bodrovski is merely the eyes and ears. Meanwhile, he’s the prey. And a blind one at that, because he should’ve already seen this coming, see the whole truth from the start, from the moment Sergei sent the message and the double-speak during the meeting.

The guy must have been on the colonel’s payroll and the hire was all a ruse, Nicholai thinks. He humphs in return, pulling off a smirk, and sips from his coffee.

“How did you learn about Oliveira?” He resumes, putting down the mug.

“In my line of work, you hear many things.” His nail scratches at the ceramic handle. His eyes remain glued to Nicholai. “What matters is parsing the valuable information, and this one definitely caught my attention. Knowing how much Umbrella is struggling lately, I thought it could come in handy.”

“Can you prove he’s alive? Or that he might be one of the leaks? ”

Bodrovski’s smile widens, reeking of confidence from someone who knows he has an advantage. 

“Oh, I do. I did some digging and he procured a fake invitation for The Grand Hotel auction thanks to his shadier connections. Ones he made as a gun for hire. Now it seems he likes to play around with this anti-Umbrella unit.” The pause is deliberate, and Nicholai knows he’s been waiting to bring this up ever since he walked into the diner. Part of the test, he guesses. “That was a little fiasco, right? The auction. They got their hands on the vaccine and a virus sample there. The time frame matches. Refresh my memory, but weren’t you in the hotel that night?”

Nicholai tisks, tipping his lips into a crooked smile, and lifts up his chin defiantly. 

“I was.” For a brief second, he thinks about elaborating, repeating the same lies he had told Sergei long ago—fabricated truths that he had thought had bought Sergei’s trust. They had been believable, blaming the lack of security cameras for the theft. Blaming the paranoid owner for his incompetence. Sergei had dealt with the guy afterwards, as far as he knows. But he grits his teeth and drills Bodrovski with his stare, imagines smashing his head onto the table. In the end, he simply talks back. “Good thing you’re here now to keep an eye on all of us, right?”

A chuckle leaves Bodrovski. He leans on the table.

“I can only hope to impress you so you put on a good word with the colonel.”

“What’s in it for you?” Nicholai prods, holding his stare.

“Money, of course,” Bodrovski replies, his teeth showing in the sharp smirk. “Umbrella may be going down, but they sure as hell pay well.”

It’s Nicholai's turn to laugh under his nose, and his eyes roll.

“Well, you’re right on that one.”

He finishes what remains of his coffee in one gulp. The drumming of Bodrovski’s fingers floats around the booth, until his voice breaks the short silence.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asks, and there’s a curious shine in his eyes, as if he’s expectant.

With a wave, Nicholai points at him. His expression turns more serious.

“You’re a surveillance expert. Keep tabs on Oliveira and report to me. Then we’ll talk about the plan.”

The lamp hanging over them casts shadows over Bodrovski’s angular features.

“I’m eager to see the Silver Wolf in action.”

Poison runs through the words, but Nicholai doesn’t flinch. Not on the outside, keeping up the appearances even if he has never felt more like a rat trapped in a maze, unsure on what path to take. Choices, in his worldview, are weighed on worth and risk—and he knows this game could risk everything, but whether he’ll do it or not, he can’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 27/01/2021: Hi everyone! As you can see, this is taking a while to update. So I decided to add this short note just to let you all know that I haven’t abandoned LO&W at all. I’m still working and thinking about this fic, I’m still obsessed with the ship, but my creativity (and especially writing) has been faltering in the last months.
> 
> I am continuing the story, but I have decided to finish all chapters of _moments of truth_ before publishing anything new because I’m still reworking some parts and it’d just take a weight off my shoulders to do it that way. Sorry for the long wait ahead and thank you again for all the support!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Bodrovski is loosely based on [SPECTRE](https://residentevil.fandom.com/wiki/Vladimir_Bodrovski), the Operation Raccoon City character. However, I haven’t played the game myself, so it’s mostly me taking bits and pieces of an already established character to fit my own canon. His background definitely came in handy for this. Also I need to play ORC one of these days.
> 
> Since the actual Bodrovski is always masked, I decided to picture this Bodrovski as none other than Zack Ward, who played Nicholai in Resident Evil Apocalypse for like barely 1 minute of footage. But it’s my own little homage to the film version! Besides, for as brief as it is (and bad as it is, god it’s sooo bad), that movie feeds my Jill/Nicholai shipping heart a little bit, so it’s been slightly redeemed in my eyes.
> 
> Before saying goodbye until the next chapter, I wanted to share some LO&W art I did myself! You can find it [here](https://lordbhreanna.tumblr.com/post/633527665820909568/hes-a-man-of-habit-and-this-has-become-one-in), and it’s based around chapter 3 of _cause that’s not our deal_. I plan on doing more in the future. In general, I have drawn [a ton of Jill/Nicholai fanart lately](https://lordbhreanna.tumblr.com/tagged/myreart). You can check it on my tumblr and/or pillowfort (where the slight NSFW is not censored).
> 
> As usual, thank you for all the comments, kudos and support everywhere ❤️


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